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ECHOES of FRANCE 



Verses from my Journal and Letters 

BY 

Amy Robbins Ware 



American Red Cross 

and 

Army Educational Corps 

A. E. F. 



March 14th, 1918 

to 
July 14th, 1919 
and afterwards 



Distant thunder, a moment's lull; 
The storm's snap, and afterclap; 
Fair rainbow, and then afterglow. 



THE FARNHAM COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 

EDISON BUILDING 

MINNEAPOLIS. MINN. 






Copyright 1920 

by 

Amy Robbins Ware 



m) 1 7, '921 
S)C(.A617061 
I 



Q 



To 

The lads who "Went West" 
and were sleeping there 'neath 
the flower-strewn fields or in 
No-Man's-Land of Far-away 
Happy-sad France this little 
Book is Reverently Dedicated. 



GREETING 

EST-CE QUE c'eST VOUS? 

A greeting to those for whom and with 
whom I served during 16 months sojourn in 
France in 1918-19. 

To Mothers of boys "Gone West" and those 
who returned, I hope this assurance that Amer- 
ican women were at the scene of action may be 
a comfort. 

Those who toiled in making ready supplies 
for "over there," may like to know how it fared 
with us in the field. 

To the wonderful group of gallant bird-men, 
including my radio-boys, at Issoudun, as well as 
Red Cross and "Y" workers, "Distant Thunder" 
may hold a reminiscent interest. 

"The Lull" just touches the Biarritz leave 
area so dear to many. 

"The Storm" will recall incidents of St. Mihiel 
to officers and corps-men of Field Hospital No. 41. 
Those who labored in that gigantic tent Hospital, 
No. 9 at Vaubricourt also will hear an echo of 
their experience there. 



IV 



Especially I hope that Staff, Corps-men and 
Nurses of Evacuation Hospital No. 11 may have 
through my little book a crystallized memory of 
days of the Argonne drives at Brizeaux-Forestiere. 

Perhaps by this time even the patients who 
endured so much so bravely, may care to recall 
those hours in far away France. 

"The Rainbow" shows a unit of the A. E.G. 
at the "Center" at Savenay, where the eight big 
Base Hospitals were, in the Spring of 1919. 
Through this center also came all the Army 
Nurse Corps that spring on their way home. 
Here it was, that grand woman, Jane Delano, 
was buried. 

And I believe many members of the A.E.F. 
will react sympathetically to fancies in the 
"Afterglow." 

Amy Robbins Ware, A.R.C., A.E.C., A.E.F. 



ROBBINSDALE, MINNESOTA, 

November 19th, 1920. 



PREFACE 



As the years roll by, images that we have 
preserved in our minds, images intense and warm, 
gradually grow dimmer and dimmer and vanish 
into the forgotten. 

It is scarcely believable, nevertheless it is 
true, that even those deep-graven impressions of 
our departure for the war, in the darkness, our 
apprehensive skulking across the ocean; our terror 
and agony of the combat; our grief and pain of 
the sickrooms; our delight, later, of the sweet 
country and its brave, fine people, are already 
fading. 

What a pity! These are hard- won treasures 
of ours which we may well guard, jealously, for 
they, alone, are all we possess of our great ad- 
venture. The anguish and pain, despair and 
rage, are now part of us — but, so are the lovely 
flowers, the brilliant blue sky, and the joyous spirit 
of France. 

This I told Mrs. Ware when I heard a few of 
her verses. It seemed to me as though they 
had been caught off the forge, they glowed and 
sparkled with the heat which had created them. 



VI 



Written in the darkened ship and in the roaring 
Forest of Argonne they caught the terrific im- 
pressions of the hour and preserved them for us. 

While we were still in France I asked her to 
put them together in a book, these impressions of 
nurse, radio instructor, canteen worker, and teacher, 
who met adventure in many guises at every turn 
in what was, probably, the most varied career of all 
the splendid women who served so well with the 
Expeditionary Forces. 

We shall need many books like this as we 
march along the years; we shall need them to 
revive our sleeping memories so that we may 
live through the great experience once more. At 
such a moment it will be to a little book of verse 
like this, full of color and warmth, of grief and 
pain, and of serene and tranquil beauty, that we 
shall turn. 



Edmund Baehr. 



University of Cincinnati, 
November 11th, 1920. 



VII 




FARTHEST ENEMY ADVANCE 1914 l-l-l-l-l-l ON OCT. 1, 




1918 oooo ON NOV. 11, 1918 



BOUNDARIES -•- 



FOREWORD 



New York Harbor, 

5 o'clock p. M, March 14th, 1918. 

BECAUSE 

Because the mem'ry of my soldier father 

Is so vivid to me; 
And years ago his only son passed on 

To the Far Countree; 
Because in Tripler Hospital my Mother 

Lent her youthful strength for 
Two years in the awful havoc of 

Our own Civil War, 
And has stood by me to the very moment 

Of my sailing; 
Because my sisters are the staunchest 

Champions unfailing; 
And I have a Friend most wonderful; 

Because I feel the urge today 
Of generations of Americans 

Who will not let me stay: 
I have this night started on the voyage 

So fraught with chance, 
I hope will carry me across the darkened 

Mine-strewn Sea to France, 



XI 




Andrew Bonnev Robbins 

Co. A., 8th Regt. Minnesota Volunteers 

Anoka, Minnesota, 1861 



XII 




Adelaide Julia Walker (Robbins) 

Volunteer Nurse, Tripler General Hospital 

Columbus, Ohio, 1862 



XIII 




Amy Robbins Ware, A. R. C, A. E. F. 



XIV 



INTRODUCTION 

The author of this record of the late War, 
set down in rhythmic prose or verse, is a friend 
and former student of mine. 

Mrs. Ware's transcript of the Great Struggle 
has the advantage of being personal; she saw, ex- 
perienced, was part of all that she depicts for the 
benefit of others. This renders her account authen- 
tic, gives it vividity, and makes it carry conviction. 

Many a beautifully written book falls on 
languid, lackadaisical ears, for it is about nothing 
in particular; a noise in a vacuum. In sharp 
contrast with all such, is this unique, unconven- 
tional, honest setting down of actual and stirring 
occurrences, since she who went through with it, 
had the enormous asset of being participant in the 
mightiest international movement in all human 
history. 

It is by the re-duplicated testimony of millions 
of eye witnesses like Mrs. Ware, that we stay-at- 
homes can get a synthesis on the whole, and re-live 
its scenes through the imagination. 

The author's co-workers, and innumerable 
other mortals who, like myself, merely looked on 
and humbly helped in civic ways, will be glad to 
read her Echoes of France. 

Richard Blrton. 



University of Minnesota, 
November 1st, 1920. 



XV 



CONTENTS 
ECHOES OF FRANCE 

Page 

Dedication Ill 

Greetings (Est-ce que c'est vous?) IV 

Preface, by Edmund Baehr VI 

Foreword, Because XI 

Introduction, by Richard Burton XV 

Part One, DISTANT THUNDER 1 

The Horse of Troy 2 

Moonlight in France 4 

A Shrouded City 5 

Paris 6 

Veil of Ste. Genevieve 7 

Refugees 8 

Le pays 10 

First Flash of Camp 12 

In the Greatest Cause 12 

Field 10 14 

The Flag of France 18 

To Speak Each Other in Passing 19 

Forced Landings, or Free Milk in France 20 

The Heathen Chinee 23 

Back Home on Leave 24 

More Than Life 25 

Retrospect 26 

In Memoriam 33 

Reverie 34 

Part Two, THE LULL, an Interval 3 5 

Impressions: 1. Le matin, Biarritz 36 

2. Under the Arcades of Bayonne 36 

3. Pau, the Pearl of the Pyrenees 36 

4. Ebb-tide at Saint Jean du Luz 37 

Night at Lourdcs, a Sonnet 37 

Rejuvenation 38 



XVI 



CONTENTS— Cont. 

ECHOES OF FRANCE 

Page 

Part Three, THE STORM 39 

J 'attends, c'est la guerre 41 

The Advance on St. Mihiel 44 

Forced March 45 

Stove-pipe and Water-tank 47 

The Abri 48 

Behind the Lines 49 

American Hospital Train 53 

Birds of the Night 54 

"Strike Tents' 56 

Vaubricourt en passant '>7 

En route Again 59 

In the Shadow of Beaulieu, Meuse-Argonne 60 

One of my Heroes, Harold Johns 61 

An Echo of the Argonne 62 

For the Life of a Surgeon 65 

"xjvlidnight 66 

In a Tent 67 

Le cheval blesse et des oeufs 69 

No-Man's-Land 73 

In the Night 77 

Furnaces of War 80 

Part Four, THE AFTERCLAP 81 

Last Rose of Verdun, a sonnet 83 

Pitiful Hope of the Future 84 

The Heart of the Argonne 87 

Puddings 'n'everything 90 

Quai d'Orsay 91 

The Afterclap 91 

Lvtcrian Riviera 92 



XVII 



CONTENTS— Cont. 

ECHOES OF FRANCE 

Page 

Part Five, THE RAINBOW 95 

L'arc en ciel des fleures de la France 96 

A. E. C. at Savenay 98 

Sam Brownes 99 

The Wake 100 

Inspection 106 

20 Days" Leave 107 

Foxglove's Mirror 108 

Apologia For the Blimps 110 

Blimps 112 

Ode to la Loire 114 

The Edge of the World, a Sonnet 117 

Peace 118 

Part Six, AFTERGLOW 119 

Homeward 120 

Back in God's Country 122 

Vanishing Gold at the Rainbow's End 126 

Memories of Martial Music: 

1. The Chopin Funeral March 127 

The Last Salute 128 

2. Taps 129 

3. Retreat 130 

4. Reveille 131 

Etchings 132 

5 '"Till we meet again " 133 

Echo and re-echo 134 

Fagot Willows 136 

Aftermath 137 

The Sunset Gun 138 

6. The Star-Spanglcd Banner 
Carry On 139 



XVIII 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 

Map of S. O. S. and Z. O. A VIII 

Andrew B. Robbins, 8th Minnesota Volunteers 1861 . . . XII 
Adelaide Julia Walker (Robbins), Volunteer Nurse, Tripler 

General Hospital 1862 XIII 

Amy Robbins Ware, A. R. C, A. E. F., 1918 XIV 

PiGs at Issoudun 11 

High in the Air Above Us 17 

The Heathen Chinee 22 

The Red Cross Sewing Shop 29 

Lest our Young Soldiers Roam 30 

Lieutenant Mark Hamilton, U. S. Air Service 32 

In Memoriam 33 

Gas Mask and Helmet 40 

Our 1000-gallon Tank-car and the Engineers 46 

Camouflaged Monsters 50 

On the American Hospital Train 52 

Birds of the Night 55 

Stretcher Bearers in No Man's Land 57 

One of my Heroes, Harold Johns 61 

Le chc\al blesse 69 

The Borders of Hell 72 

The Roads Were Infernally Cut up 74 

In the Trenches of the Argonne 77 

Capt. Homer Youngs 82 

lis ne passeront pas 83 

Comrades in France 85 

Exermont, the Heart of the Argonne 86 

The Beach at Nice 93 

Sam Brownes 99 

The Studio 104 

La Loire at Blois 115 

Soldiers" Bunks on the "Impcrator" 120 

"The Old Girl in the Harbor" 1 23 

The Last Salute 128 



XIX 



ECHOES OF FRANCE 

Part One 

DISTANT THUNDER 

March 14th, 1918 

to 
August 15th, 1918 



The angry clouds of war have gathered; 
The distant thunder rumbles westward. 
Echoing round the whole vast girth 
Of the shuddering, horror-stricken earth. 



At sea, French Liner, La Touraine, carrying U. S. 
troops and German mail, sailing without convoy. 
Night of March 23rd, 1918. 



THE HORSE OF TROY 

In the midst of this hurricane month of Mars 

In the fourth year of the war, 
We dodged from the Goddess of Liberty's gate 

In the gloom of a growing storm. 
The scudding clouds drove on before 

And the flying feet of our plunging steed 
Sent a jet of spray with a mocking fling 

Backward into the night. 

Nine nights we have ridden the ranging mare 

On the trail of an unlit way. 
While she rattled the bit with an angry jerk 

And neighed as a Banshee sprite. 
Our eyes still smart from the stinging lash 

Of her streaming wind-whipped mane, 
While we clung to the pommel and strove to pierce 

The perilous course that she held. 



Already one man has been shaken off, 

As a fly from her foam flecked flank; 
And ever the spray leaped higher 

As we lunged through the lashing waves, 
'Till muscle and bone and brain were tired 

With a sickening weariness, 
And we shivered and wondered what next would 
come 

As her hoofs clove the mine strewn track. 

And so we have come to the last tense night 

When we should make a dash for the goal, 
But the bucking beast is exhausted quite, 

She has dropped to a calmer gait, 
Recking not that some prowler grim 

May note how her paces lag 
And hurl us into eternity 

With a curse and a "Spurlos Versenkt!" 

But if they take heed that our saddle-bags 

Are filled with the German mail. 
We may reach our destination, safe 

Ere another sun goes down. 
Then out from this charger, descended direct 

In the line of Troy's famed sire. 
Our hundreds of hidden warriors bold 

Will come forth on the shores of France. 



Bordeaux-Paris Express, 
Midnight, March 24th, 1918. 



MOONLIGHT IN FRANCE 

Resting on my steamer roll, I am 
watching the first fair moonlit night in 
France speeding past the windows. 

We are hastening toward Paris, 
which they tell us is under siege of a 
long range gun. 

This glorious moonlight only lays 
that fair city a victim of raiders in the 
air. All wires were down, the Red 
Cross man who came for us told us 
all we know. 

The dear little villages are slipping 
away in the night; dark vines etched 
on their pale grey walls. 

Tall Lombardy poplars mirrored in 
the peaceful streams are sentinels who 
guard the sleeping countryside. How 
vividly they recall memories of this happy 
land four interminable years ago when 
I last gazed enraptured upon its quaint 
and lovely restfulness. 



QuAi d'Orsay, Paris, 
Morning March 25th, 1918. 



A SHROUDED CITY 

How strange it is! 

Place de la Concorde looked from 
the bridge like a group of watchmen's 
towers on railroad crossings, little square 
buildings up in the air; in reality these 
are sandbag shields to the dear beautiful 
monuments. 

Everywhere "Abri" signs indicate 
the refuge entrances. When the "Alerte" 
sounds or the siren screeches, every one 
dashes in. 

No traffic, no taxis, we go to our 
hotel on the Rue Caummartin in a "cam- 
ionette." 

The big shop windows are protected 
from vibrations by decorative lattice- 
work of pasted paper strips. Being 
French, of course these have a real 
artistic value. 

It is all very tense, — Paris under siege! 



Paris, 

March 26th, 1918. 

How changed I find my beloved Paris tonight! 
Her charm in this veil of darkness is superb. 



PARIS 

I knew her in her gay mood, 

When she pledged to life's delight 
In a sparkling cup of laughter 

And all the world was bright. 

Tonight we wander through the Bois 
In a silence that is deep; 

Deep also are the mingled shadows 
Of lost memories that sleep. 

But when I stretch my hand to touch 
My lovely wistful friend. 

She has faded in the mist where 
Vagrant fancies blend. 

My thoughts take wing and follow 
The fluttering vision back, — 

The months of anguish that intervene 
Seem years on years, all black. 

Perhaps I loved her but lightly 
In those vivid care free days, 

But the suffering that transfigures hei 
Binds me in undreamed ways. 

The Soul that has come into being 
No joy alone could give, 

But fathered of tragic sorrow 
It shall forever live! 



Paris, 

March 26th, 1918. 

Ste. Genevieve guardian of Paris wrought a miracle of mists, 
as I came down the Champs Elysees tonight. 



VEIL OF SAINTE GENEVIEVE 

A pale moon bends above the Seine 

And dark eyed buildings look askance 

At me, while shrouded fountains 

Huddle close the treasure-trove of France. 

A dim blue glow shows here and there 

From regions under ground, 
All is expectant, hushed and still. 

No sign of human life, no sound. 

I feel the solemn presence 

Of a myriad sepulchers. 
Somewhere a Mother prays in anguish 

For that sleeping babe of hers. 

Sainte Genevieve has heard her. 

For a mist comes drifting o'er 
Veiling the towers of Notre Dame 

And swathing Sacre Coeur, 

While the Arc is hidden safely 

"Neath that sheltering mantle's hem 

Whose ample folds are swiftly gathering 
Tour Eiffel under them. 

So the city rests in her billowy couch 

Invisible from above. 
Secure in the protection 

Of a gentle guardian's love. 



QuAi d'Orsay, Paris, 
March 29th, 1918. 



REFUGEES 

I have bought my billet militaire 
And am waiting at the gate, 

Friend porter has my baggage 
But my faith in him is great. 

The station seethes with refugees 

Who have fled from Chantilly way 

Because the Boches are coming fast 
And may be there today. 

Gesticulating and jabbering, 

They carry their treasured Penates; 
Wicker baskets, and odd straw crates, — 

Beasts and birds inhabit these. 

Ungainly cloth-wrapped bundles 
Obtruding here and there; 

And many mirthless children 
Hovering everywhere. 



Haggard faces bear the imprint 

Of tragic days of danger, 
This is a strange new France in which 

I am an utter stranger. 

At last the jostling, struggling line 

Compactly moves along. 
The gates are open and we pass through 

A strange assorted throng. 

Friend porter has "place reservee" 
To which he points with pride. 

He has held it with "les baggages" 
My faith is justified! 

The wife of a young French officer 
With only a place in the aisle, 

Bids adieux to her soldier husband 
With lips that bravely smile. 

Surely the crucial challenge 

Already has been hurled 
At breathless waiting Paris, — 

Gentle France, — the World! 



On the Train to Issoudun, (P. L. & M.) 
March 29th, 1918. 



LE PAYS 

The little towns are quaint and picturesque 
as of yore; 
But in the fields are only old men, 
Saddened women and little children; 
The joyous spirit of youth, alas, is seen 
no more. 

Black is omnipresent in the sombre suits of 
woe, 
Only uniforms of France, horizon blue. 
Relieve the gloom with their fair hue. 
Even these do keep in mind the cause of all 
the black, though. 



In a Truck, Issoudun to Camp. 

It is 11 kilometres from Issoudun 
to Camp. A gentle rolling country with 
the familiar sky-line of Lomhardy poplars, 
low vine-trellised buiklings, and pine 
groves here and there. 



10 



3rd Aviation Instruction Centre, 
March 29th, 1918. 



PiGs AT ISSOUDUN 




Les prisonniers de la guerre, P. G.s, are 
working on the roads in their green uniforms 
with visored, red-trimmed caps. 

Someone has painted an "i" into the brand on 
some of these uniforms, making it read "P i G". 



3rd Aviation Instruction Centre, 

IssouDUN, Loir-Indre, 
March 29th, 1918. (From a letter home). 



FIRST FLASH OF CAMP 

Camp is much like Marmarth, N. D., in color, 
quality and quantity of mud. It also recalls Bill 
Hart's films by the predominance of men, and in the 
long low barrack buildings of wood. 

The air teems with planes. 

There are about twenty of us in the Red Cross 
Canteen, directed by Miss Given-Wilson. 

We are under such strict regulations as to uni- 
forms, etc., that I shall probably be shot at sunrise 
before long. The "Thou shalt nots" are too numerous 
to be easily remembered. 



April 10th, 1918. 

IN THE GREATEST CAUSE 

Today I asked for my cousin 

Who flew with the Lafayette men. 

The answer struck at the heart of me 
A blow that numbed me then. 



12 



April 10th, 1918. 



Driving his Spad in a swift pursuit 
Flying beyond the Boches' lines, 

As he peaked in lightning maneuvres 

He crashed 'mid their bursting mines. 

He already had earned his Croix de Guerre 

Ere ever I crossed the Sea 
In the vanished hope I could lend a hand 

If such need as this should be. 

So the roar and onrush of tempests 
That are raging in fury so great 

Come echoing back to the training camp 
Where eager bird-men wait. 

They long to try their pinions wide 
Out there "gainst the hazards new 

Of this man-made chance to wage a war 
In the great un-charted blue. 

I know I am not comprehending yet 
What this is that I have been told. 

It is quite too vast at the moment 

As I glimpse what the future must hold. 

The thought that sustains us now is 

"We each have but one life to give, 

And if it could count in the greatest cause 
One would not choose rather to live." 



13 



ISSOUDUN, 

May 14th, 1918. ( Four go to Field 10 today.) 



FIELD 10 

I cannot describe my yearning 

For the free young lads who flew, 
Not knowing from day to day 

Whether they would come through; 
And the wracking nights of sleeplessness 

When someone was missing from mess. 
( In my dreams the final salutes still ring 

On that field whence Spirits take wing.) 

Each time as the sound of a muffled drum 

Grew through the listening heat 
My heart would stop for a second 

To catch the familiar beat, 
And a clamping, choking feeling 

Would take me by the throat, 
At the thought of the waiting Mothers 

In a land so far remote. 



14 



Field 10. 



To the strains of that martial music 

The Fiat camion, 
Bearing its flag-draped casket, 

Solemnly moves on,- — 
With the slowly marching comrades 

Taking a last farewell 
Of another brave young buddy 

"Gone West," because, — he fell. 

And we stand with flowers garnered 

Under the morning skies 
With the dewy tears still glistening 

In their lovely starry eyes. 
Sweet tribute of the spring-time 

To honor our glorious dead, 
Who have given their lives as nobly 

As if thev had fought instead. 



15 



ISSOUDUN 

May 14th, 1918. 



And while the fateful pronouncement 

Of "Dust to dust"" rings out, 
High in the air above us 

Mock combats are whirring about, 
And two new graves stand open 

Awaiting the next who fall, 
For rarely a day goes by 

But the final bugles call. 

Those eager soaring eagles 

Fly with a purpose high 
To do their daring duty 

When their time shall come to try. 
Not the least of that daring duty 

These flights in the unknown air 
"When they go with a vast uncertainty 

Their new-fledged wings to wear. 

The youthful, utter courage 

Of these boys at Issoudun 
Lends a positive exaltation 

To our grief when their bit is done. 
And always after a funeral 

There has to be a dance, — 
One cannot think on death too long 

When he must fly in France. 



16 



Field 10, Issoudun, May 30th, 1918. 








High in the air above us mock combats are whirring about. 

17 



ISSOUDUN, 

May 22ncl, 1918. 



THE FLAG OF FRANCE 

High bird notes sound the morning call 

Of Nature's reveille 
To which my soul enraptured 

Stands attention happily. 

And when the dawn grows radiant 
On the fields of Issoudun, 

! walk to greet Aurora 

As she ushers in the Sun. 

The touch of her slender finger tips 
As she leans from out the sky, 

Tells to the waiting blossoms 

That the Goddess is passing by. 

Bluet, Marguerite, Coquelicot, 

In little quivering thrills 
Spread triple colored petals 

O'er the dew-starred springtime 
hills. 

A breeze sweeps a deep salaam 

To the Golden Queen's advance. 

And over the fields that instant 
Is unfurled the flag of France. 



18 



3rd Aviation Instruction Centre, 
May 24th, 1918. 

Lieut. Woik, director of the Radio School 
is ordered away. I am to take his place! 



TO SPEAK EACH OTHER IN PASSING' 

Each night when my canteen day is done 

I go for a half mile walk, 
To "Y Hut 2," by the big stone shop 

Where they have the testing block. 

But it isn't the walk I go for, 

Ah no! I'm so tired, I'll say, 
I could just /a// into my army bunk, 

For at five begins my day. 

But those eager ambitious youngsters 

Must learn the wireless key. 
If they want to earn their brevets 

And their "Sam Browne belts," you see. 

The two hours are divided — ■ 

Theory, machines, and tactics; 

The rest of the flying moments 

In messages swift the key clicks. 

So every night but Sunday, 

In weeks that are far too short, 

We tap the queer big knobs they use 
And think it rare good sport. 



19 



3rd Aviation Instruction Centre, 
May 24th, 1918. 

My thoughts tonight have flown backward 

To a window on Loring Park, 
Where I taught the Navy League girls to send. 

And the "why?" of a radio spark. 



May 26th, 1918. 

FORCED LANDINGS 

or 

FREE MILK IN FRANCE 

When the dew is on the daisies 
And the hay is in the mow, 

And your mascot goat is blatting 
And the milk is in the cow, 

What in the deuce can you do, boy. 
But go for a spin in the blue, boy, 
And bring it back in a paiP 

So you try to mount your Nieuport 
When the sky is free of bumps, 

And hope the C. O. will not have 
A prying fit of grumps. 

For there surely is nothing to do, boy, 
But go for a spin in the blue, boy, 
And bring it back in a pail. 



20 



May 26th. 1918. 



Yet when you're sailing up above 

And cows are down below, 
You won't believe how hard it is 

A simple cow to know. 

But sure and the job is to do, boy. 
As you circle up there in the blue, boy, 
For to bring it back in a pail. 

From the vantage point of heaven 

You pick a "likely" mammal. 
Quickly force a landing, 

And light a fragrant Camel. 

You hope that the critter won't moo, boy, 
Until you are perfectly through, boy, 
And have carried it back in a pail. 

But when you get your treasure 

And come sailing into camp. 
You're rewarded by the antics 

Of the funny little scamp, 

For he knows just what is to do, boy, 

With the manna that came from the blue, boy, 

And was carried back in a pail! 




o 



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o 

6 
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o 

x> 

CO 

a 



22 



3rd Aviation Instruction Centre, 
July 1st, 1918. 



THE HEATHEN CHINEE 

To teach the heathen chinee how to iron! 

Well what do you think of that? 
How Mother would laugh if she saw me, — 

One's little, the other enormously fat. 

"Ma-pa-bon, voo-bon, 
Ugh-lai-e-e, 
Lets go. 

And they stand there and watch what I'm doing. 
And mimic and chuckle and grin. 

The way that they mix up the language 
And juggle with speech is a sin. 

"Ma-pa-bon, voo-bon, 

Ugh-lai-e-e, 

Let's go!" 

I don't know a thing about ironing. 

Any one knows that knows me, 
But the pleats that I put in my uniform blouse 

Are the reason I have to be 
The model this sweltering hot summer weather 

For stupid and comical Heathen Chinee. 

"Ma-pa-bon, voo-bon! 

Ugh-lai-e-e, 

Lets-go!" 



23 



ISSOUDUN, 

August 1st, 1918. (From letters home.) 



BACK HOME ON LEAVE 

Marie and I had the surprise 
of our lives this morning. I was 
scrubbing tables in the canteen, 
twelve done, ten to go; and she was 
grinding coffee to beat the band 
which was just completing its musical 
march 'round the square. 

At the witching hour of six 
forty five who should come galloping 
into our paddock but Lieutenant 

X , of the picture frames 

carved from "props,"' a zither built 
from the ground up, of "laminated 
wood," and all the other time-killing 
devices with which he was wont to 
slay 99-Hved Time, while he champed 
the bit to get to the FRONT. 

He has been! Flown in long 
distance reconnaissance, driving a 
"Salmson," for a terrific number of 
hours. Had a three days leave to 
Paris, and took the first train 
"back home, to see how all the folks 
were. You didn't think I'd stay 
in Paris, did you, and not come 
home a-talL" 



24 



ISSOUDUN, 

August 1st, 1918. 



(After ail, perhaps the grilling 
work we do, does count for the main 
object, to bring a piece of America 
here to France for them.) 

He is subtilely but decidedly 
changed, though. Something evanes- 
cent, something that meant youth 
has left him. Something different and 
just as intangible has come, and 
it makes for confidence and power. 
Yet, how reluctant I feel to see 
youth go, even for this finer, broader 
spirit! 

Nearly a Year Later. 

MORE THAN LIFE 

I saw Lieutenant X. . . , yesterday 
before I left Paris. More than youth 
has gone now. He was so wounded 
that he says he will never return 
to the States. Life wouldn't mean 
much to him there now. 

(One thing war does, is to make 
death seem a very simple, not very 
terrible thing, after all.) 



25 



En train, Issoudun to Paris, 
August 12th, 1918. 



RETROSPECT 



A sadness steals o'er me 
That closing episodes will ever see; 
For Camp has opened wide the doors of Life, 
Filling the hours with myriad duties rife. 
Since I arrived in winter's waning day, 
Adding my little mite to make things gay 
For those young lads, forever on the wing, 

Who smile through everything. 

"On marmites" is a shift, 
Will test you out, if you may have the gift 
To stoke two ranges huge with softest coal ; 
As with dainty touch you fill the hot drink bowl ; 
Open ten tin cans for every marmite filled, 
"Coffee-grinding" a kilo and a half well milled; 
Keeping the"caisse" supplied the while you're seen 

Scouring great marmites clean. 



26 



En train, Issoudln to Paris, 



"On Officers", how queer! 
It sounded oddly to my novice ear, 
But very soon I learned all that it meant 
As up and down our flying footsteps went. 
Two hundred officers, five times a day, 
With "set ups", mess by courses, flowers gay; 
Fiv'e plates at once, sans trays, and take your turn. 

(Oh, how those hot bowls burn!) 

"Sandwiches", a busy 
Shift, slicing, spreading, filling, 'til you're dizzy. 
Bread puddings, too, "like Mother used to make," 
"I'll tell the world that they're not hard to take!" 
Boiled eggs, sausages, and apples were great treats, 
Fresh milk, hot drinks, "nubbins and other eats," 
Dispensed at "Caisse" for the enlisted men. 

(Hark! The Chopin march, again!) 



En train, Issoudun to Paris, 
August 12th. 1918. 



When your shift is "Canteen," 
You keep the twenty two big tables clean. 
Pick up and wash in hot suds "minerale" 
Huge baskets full of tin cups; gather all 
The scraps in pails; make festive bouquets 

bright; 
And see that checker sets and chess are 

right. 
Thus do we make an atmosphere of home, 

Lest our young soldiers "roam."' 

"The Red Cross Sewing Shop" 
Is where our new-made officers would stop 
To have a brevet wing sewed on, with space 
Above the pocket for the honor badge of "ace." 
And Sergeants chevrons, on the proper sleeves. 
Or braids, one, two, or more, straight and in 

clover leaves, 
For officers and men we mended, pressed. 

Likewise for those "Gone West." 



28 



issoudun, 
July, 1918. 



THE RED CROSS SEWING SHOP 




OmCIAL RED CROSS 



For officers and men we mended, pressed, likewise 
for those "Gone West" 



29 



issoudun, 
Summer, 1918. 




30 



En train, Issoudun to Paris, 

August 12th, 1918. 



Flowers for the Canteen, 
And officers" mess-hall that might be seen. 
We gathered in brief intervals "off duty;" 
In spring there is so much of beauty 
In France that truly it was a delight to go 
O'er fields and meadows where sweet flowers 

blow. 
And garner them for eager, gallant men. 

Or weave them for Field 10. 

Not least among the tasks 
Which our strange, varied Service asks. 
Is that we dance of nights, and make as tho' 
We felt all light of heart, and did not know 
That just today, one we had "mothered" well, 
In flying of a faulty Nieuport, fell. 
This is the lesson we must learn from France, - 

"Smile on, and face War's chance! " 



31 




Lieut. "Sandy" Hamilton, 1 18 Aero Squadron 
than whom none was more sadly missed. 



32 



3rd Axiation Instruction Centre, 
August 5th, 1918. 



IN MEMORIAM 




All honor is due to the boys who flew, 
And are sleeping under the flowers. 
So brave, so gay and so young were they 
In the hope of those golden hours. 



33 



En train, Issoudun to Paris, 
August 12th, 1918. 



REVERIE 

Sunshine and shadows; grilling 
toil and the sweet recompense 
of real appreciation: 

Music, joy, hope, exuberance of 
the life military; and again, — 

Music, the passing of life, and 
the burial niilitary, with its own 
exalted grief. 

All this and more, Issoudun has 
been to me. 

Now at the close of the episode, 
I am glad to find that I can still 
accept life on the terms offered, — 
being thankful both for the sunshine 
and the shadows: 

Sunshine for its own sake, 
and shadows for showing the sunshine 
more fair. 

"To be saddened by the inescap- 
able is a great mistake," one can not, 
one must not, in time of war! 



34 



ECHOES OF FRANCE 
Part Two 

THE LULL 

(An Interval) 

August 15th, 1918, 

to 

September 10th, 1918. 



Sometimes as the tempest foregathers 

Comes a hush, 
When the throb of the tense waiting 

Silence is heard. 



IMPRESSIONS 



Le Matin, Biarritz, 
August 16th, 1918. 

The morning sounds of Biarritz 

Begin at break of day, 
With the shrill call of the fish-wife, 

And "Madelon" across the way. 
While down below us boom the drums 

The dashing whitecaps play. 

Under the Arcades of Bayonne, 
August 25th, 1918. 

My spirit rides at anchor 

Or drifts the summer sea, 

Sipping ices here at Bayonne, 
Where the best makillas be; 

And all the world seems filled 

With peace and harmony to me. 

The Pearl of the Pyrenees, 
September 6th, 1918. 

Oh, Pau is as lovely a jewel 
As any I ever have seen. 

Set in the crown of the mountains 
With bezel of malachite green. 



36 



Ebb-tide at Saint Jean du Luz, 
September 1st, 1918. 

As I lie in the edge of the Bay of Biscay 

Where the shore curves to St. Jean du Luz. 
With the sweet baby arms of a kiddy 

Clinging close as the gentle waves ooze; 
The toil and the grief of the months that are gone 

Slip away as a dream while I muse; 
With the mountains that frown on the borders of 

Spain 
Just a donkey ride hence, if you choose. 

Night at Lolrdes, 
September 7th, 1918. 

The night hour veils this grotto shrine; wind sighs, 
And dark rain buffets hurrying worshippers, 
Who come to light tall white cathedral tapers 
Within that strange uncanny spot where lies 
The cast off crutch or brace of those who rise 
And walk again. Notre Dame de Lourdes answers 
Who e'er purge at this weird shrine of hers, 
Moroccan soldier, and the poilu sage, 
Or malformed human victims of disease; 
(But he who hath not faith to come, — so dies.) 
While some there be who offer votive hostage. 
And kiss yon rock to purchase pain's surcease 
For those who struggle in the wars that rage 
Beyond the shadow of these Pyrenees. 



37 



En train, Biarritz to Paris, 
September 9th, 1918. 



REJUVENATION 

Oh, the glad exhilaration 
Of sharp contact with the sea, 
And the glowing exaltation 

When ashore it carried me! 

It was Biarritz for bathing 
In the jolly dashing waves; 

And now it's back to Paris 
With the health that 
courage saves. 

If Fate should send a challenge 
That would prove a crucial test 
I trust that I could meet it 

By serenely "Going West." 



38 



ECHOES OF FRANCE 
Part Three 

THE STORM 

September 10th, 1918, 

to 
November Uth, 1918. 



The storm breaks in fury of death-dealing hail 

With its poisonous blasts 'gainst which naught 
will avail, 

The lightning's lance, and the yawning earth- 
quake; — 

In these tempests that rage more than life is at 
stake. 



En route to St. Mihiel, Sept. 10th, 1918. 




An American mask and a little tin derby. 



40 



Paris, 

September 10th, 1918. 

When I arrived this morning the R. C. had just asked for 30 volunteers 
to the Front. My orders are "Observe what is needed and supply it". 



J ATTENDS, CEST LA GUERRE 

I sit in my Paris room tonight, 
With the heavy curtains tightly drawn 
So the Gothas cannot spot us as they fly. 

My knapsack lies there ready packed for 
Starting in the morning before dawn. 

(Life's great adventure has begun for me.) 

The bells already have stricken twelve 
In the region where bells still ring, 
And my thoughts are turning westward to the land 
Where my youth was spent, in the happy 
Carefree days long gone, where glad birds 
sing. 

The house on the hill in the autumn, 
The glowing warmth of open fires, soft rain. 
And the bittersweet vine on the side porch trellis. 
I cannot keep me from wondering,— 
Shall I ever be there again? 



41 



Paris, 

September 10th, 1918. 



The gas-mask drill seems all unreal, 
But that queer steel helmet I shall carry 
On my shoulder in the morning, and the canteen. 
And the mess kit, show that it was not 

Just a dream. (How life's values vary!) 

I pray that Mother may not know 
Until it is all over, — no not that! 
I don't mean "all over" in the way it sounds, 
I mean I hope she will not know until 

I'm safe returned from the great combat. 

My thoughts are all a strange confusion 
Of things I did when I was just a 
Tiny child and learned to know no fear while Father 
Let me hold his little finger as we 

Watched the warring wind and lightning play. 

They say such things occur to people 
Who are about to die, but that can't be, 
Because I've still no fear of other storms with 
Deadly man-made lightnings that glare, 

And all the ghastly havoc there to see. 

(But I'll be sadly missing Father's hand.) 



42 



And yet I do not know, I think that 
Now as then his presence will sustain. 
In bygone days there never was a time he 
Would not smooth my childish troubles 
All away and make me glad again. 

Even when a baby frog, one day, 
Fell down between the sidewalk boards, 
He took one up so I could get the silly little 
Fellow out again. So kind he led us. 

By example and by just rewards. 

(How very long ago that must have been!) 

I hope the ghastly siren does not 
Screech tonight, I am so very tired. 
And there are so few hours left before I must 

Put on these strange trappings and fare forth 

Into that Unknown, which I desired. 

(There is an odd ache in my throat that will not 
go away.) 

Suddenly the vision of a little 
Child reaches her baby arms to mine 
Out of the mists of Yesterday, "I will be 

A good little girl while you're gone, I will!" 

Oh, dearer than any gift divine — 

( I hid my face in the pillows to smother the sound 
of a tempest of tears, as the flood of memories 
swept over me.) 



43 



Paris, to Neufchateau, 
September 12th, 1918. 



THE ADVANCE 

A strangely silent city 
I crossed in the pre-dawn hour. 
I think I know now how a pilot 
feels when he steers in a dead 

blank fog. 



The Marne in the light of a 
cheerless day, is over-riding the 
underbrush on the oozy sodden 

fields. 



Chateau Thierry is behind us; 
Neufchateau is here. The dusk comes 
on apace. Our journey will continue 

in the morning. 



Neufchateau to Sorcey-sur-Meuse, 
September 13th, 1918. 



"A FORCED MARCH" 

All night long the camions passed 
Advancing on St. Mihiel; 

Khaki clad men, gas masks alert, 
And little brown hats of steel. 



Now we are a part of the line 

That makes the swift advance; 

With them our lot is cast 

By war's uncertain chance. 

See, Field Hospital forty one. 
In yonder old stone quarry! 

( Before another week is run 

Full many a tragic story — ) 



45 



Field Hospital 41, SoRCEY, Sept. 12th, 1918. 




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46 



Field Hospital 41, Sorcey-Sur-Meuse, 
September 13 th, 1918. 



STOVEPIPE and TANK-CAR 

Two sheet iron covered ovens 

In the rocky hill, 
Two hundred-litre marmites 

Of chocolate to fill 
Underneath a little shelter 

With a short stove-pipe. 

A primitive equipment 

With which to turn the trick. 
The biggest difficulty 

Service must be quick! 
The draught would be much better 

With a long stove-pipe. 

A thousand gallon tank-car 
Is always on the track 

Filled with mountain water 
The Engineers haul back. 

They're our sure dependence for 
Tarpaulin, or field-range. 
And a long stove-pipe! 



:p=r=*=f^=*^r=«==p 



f-P-F^s- 



" Water" 



47 



Field Hospital No. 41, 

September 13th, 1918. (From a letter home) 



THE ABRI 

We have folding cots with army 
blankets, and gas masks for pillows. 
Our steel helmets hang at our heads, 
within hand's reach. 

Our abri is a short rough walk 
from the tent. Down crude cut steps 
into a root-cellar like hole. It is im- 
portant because Jerry flies by night, 
every night that it does not rain. 

The sentry who patrols will sound 
the "alerte" when they come, so I will 
sleep 'til then. 

Tomorrow there will be thousands 
of activities when the patients come 
from beyond the barrage-lit hill, where 
the deadly thunder is already begin- 
ning its ominous roar. 



48 



Field Hospital No. 41, 
Midnight, September 13th, 1911 

After all those months at Issoudun these real 
combats are irresistibly fascinating to watch! 



BEHIND THE LINES 
AT ST. MIHIEL 

I sat on the steps of the abri 

While bombs from the avions fell 

And heard the shriek of the shrapnel 
Hissing its message of hell. 

The shuddering sky was shaken 

With a quivering deluge of red. 

My tremblirig soul revolted 

To think of the mangled and dead. 

"Twas only today,^ — this morning, 

I followed the swift moving train 

Bearing its burden of brave men 
Into the Valley of Pain. 

Hour after hour they have rolled on 
Winding their tortuous way. 

Rumbling, camouflaged monsters 
Transporting the troops all day. 



49 



En route to St. Mihiel, September 12th, 1918. 



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50 



Field Hospital #41, 

Night, September 13th, 1918. 



How eager they were when they saw us 
Who had followed them over the Sea 

For the sake of the Mothers who could 
not come, 
In the bitter need there will be. 

Laughing high spirited soldiers, 

Your youth is a glorious power; 

But the iron will enter your very souls 
In the life-time of this hour! 

The shells are snapping and crashing 
In that seething chaldron of hate, 

While our valiant Sons of Liberty 

Charge forward to grapple with fate. 

They'll be carried to us, on that shell- 
torn road, 

Those wrecks of gallant men! 
Lord grant that we hold a steady nerve 

That we shall not fail them then. 



Field Hospital #41, 




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52 



Field Hospital No. 41, ( from a letter home). 
September 14th, 1918. 



ON THE AMERICAN HOSPITAL 
TRAIN 

A convoy of two hundred and fifty 
patients goes out on the American train 
tonight. We will serve those from #11, 
and #39, as well as our own #4rs, on 
the stretchers in the cars, because we 
are the only Red Cross unit at hand. 

Cigarettes, cocoa, chocolate-bars, 
gum, cookies, and jelly sandwiches we 
can give freely, our supply is ample. 

By the happiest and strangest coin- 
cidence, each glass of jelly in this 
entire consignment, bears the name of 
Mrs. Capron, one of my unit here. 
Her delight in dispensing it to these lads 
is a pleasure to behold. 

I wish all those who are toiling 
at home could Know that the things are 
really "coming across." 



53 



Field Hospital #41, 
September 17th, 1918. 

To one who knows them well, there is as much difference 
in the sounci of a German and an American plane, 
as between the spoken words of the language. 



BIRDS OF THE NIGHT 

Out of the pulsing darkness 

Comes swooping a great black bird, 
And the throb of its evil heart-beat 

In the lurid night is heard, — 
Whirr-rr-rr, whirr-rr-rr. 

It needs not to see the marking 

Of a cross upon the wing 
To know the certain fledging place 

Of that monstrous harpy thing, — 
Whirr-rr-rr, whirr-rr-rr. 

I crouch down one step further 

Into the oozing trench. 
And my heart takes up the rhythm 

With a terrifying wrench, — 
Blurr-rr-rr, blurr-rr-rr. 

From its aerie beyond the hilltop 

An eagle hears the sound 
And flings a challenge skyward 

As it quickly spurns the ground, — 
Purr-a-rr-a-rr, purr-a-rr-a-rr. 

At that note of reassurance 

From the bird of the bullseye mark 
My pulses ease their throbbing 

And I strive to pierce the dark, — 
Blurr-a-rr-a-rr, blurr-a-rr-a-rr. 



54 




Far in the dim dark heavens 

Th" avenging shadow swings 

Spitting deadly flame streaked venom 
While the pending swan-song rings - 
\\'hirr-rr-rr, whirr-rr-rr. 

A flash, a flop, the cross-winged monster 
Blazing plunges to the hill, 

A twisted mangled work of carnage, 
For its human heart is still, — 



And the brave young eagle soaring 
In the darkness slips away, 

Ready for still other combats 

Of the now on-coming day, — 
Purr-a-rr-a-rr, purr-a-rr-a-rr. 



Field Hospital #41, 
September 18th, 1918. 



"STRIKE TENTS" 

Last night a fragment of shrapnel shell 
Dropped by a bird of the night, 

Struck one of the men from my home town 
As it swerved in its death-dealing 
flight. 

He died in the span of a moment 

With his poor throat mangled and torn. 
It was only a few yards from where I sat; 

And they laid him to rest in the 
early morn. 

So the C. O. ordered a zigzag trench 

Dug through the stony soil, 
To make us safe from the "daisy cutters" 

By this urgently strenuous toil. 

Just as our dearly wrought promenade 

Was ready against the need, 
Came commands "Break camp immediately, 

And on sealed orders proceed." 

We have pulled up stakes and packed our 
stores. 

And now we are on the way 
To another spot in the U. S. line 

For another fight on another day. 



56 



Evacuation Hospital #9, 
September 26th, 1918. 

I grieve to leave my little Irish buddy. There never were 
so many hours, her good cheer could'nt last another. 

VAUBRICOURT EN PASSANT 

I have left little Jane Mc Cullagh 

With that onslaught of work at nine 

Where days and nights of receiving ward 
In a lurid nightmare combine. 

The litter bearers come hurrying 

In a never ending rush 
For the ambulances keep rolling up 

From the dressing-station crush. 




SIGNAL CORPS OFFICIAL 



Stretcher bearers en route to dressing station, with 
wounded man, passing a dead horse on the field. 



57 



Evacuation Hospital #9, Vaubricourt, 
September 26th, 1918. 



The racks on which to set stretchers 

Fill two thirds of the tent. 
A ticket tied to each patient 

Tells to which ward he is sent. 

You must watch Captain Roberts' signal 

If the hot drink is to give; 
For it chokes them under the ether, 

But if they must wait, it helps them live. 

Each night to the very tent top 

Mount "processions of wounded men;" 
And German prisoners need "translating" 

For the records now and then. 

The cocoa forever must be on tap 

From the kitchen out in the rain, 

And cups incessantly sterilized 
To be safe to use again. 

From the ward of Lieutenant Carey 

Hundreds go out in a night; 
It is just as important, and much the same, 

A task that is far from light. 

Then the canteen for the walking men, 
And the dozens of wards beside ; 

With only twenty four hours in a day. 
It is hard to tell how to divide. 



58 



Vaubricourt to Brizealx-Forestiere, 
Meuse-Argonne, September 26th, 1918 

This noon Capt. Pennington asked me if I could be 
ready to move on in 45 minutes, so we're off! 



EN ROUTE AGAIN 

Another hospital w ith no Red Cross at all 
Is in most tragic need of help that we could give, 
So Captain Pennington is sending us still further up, 
With such equipment, we can make a shift to live, 
The while we set up our establishment out there. 
To carry on the work which meets one everywhere. 

Lieutenant Hoyle and I were leaving Number Nine 
In a camion filled with many strange supplies, - 
Cots and lumber, stoves, bricks, mortar, marmites, 

blankets. 
Tar-paper, nails, and food for needs that might arise. 
As we were starting from the Camp at Vaubricourt, 
Came Margaret Brown in search of missing Mobile 4, 

So we joined forces, and away we drove together. 
Tossing cigarettes and bars of chocolate as we went, 
To marching men, en route to the inferno just ahead, 
From which yet others are returning weary, spent. 
Of these who march beside us on the muddy way. 
How many will be carried back to us today! 



Brizeaux-Forestiere, Meuse Argonne, 
Evening, September 26th, 1918. 

(From letteis home) 



IN THE SHADOW OF BEAULIEU 

Croix Rouge Ambulance, so the sign 
reads, but it looks more like stock exhibit 
buildings at the State Fair, with side- 
show tents interspersed. 

Lo, and behold ! Corps men and officers 
of Evacuation Hospital #1 1 who were casual 
with Field #41 at Sorcey! 
I am unexpectedly at home in the bosom of 
my St. Mihiel family. 



September 27th, 1918. 

While the little building we are to have 
for the Red Cross was being enlarged I 
worked today in the sterilizing room, pre- 
paring surgeons" coats, and making surgical 
dressings. 

It is dark now, the sky glows in the 
familiar pulsating red, casting the trees 
that crown Beaulieu hill, sharp silhouettes 
against the ominous glare. 

The rush is beginning. It will be 
many hours before we pause again. 



60 




Evacuation Hospital #41, 

Brizeaux-Forestiere, 

September 30th, 1918. 



1 low young and sure of life he 
was! An American hero" of the 
Argonne fight. I envy the mother 
of such a son even because he has 
made the supreme sacrifice. 



HAROLD JOHNS, 
ONE OF MY HEROES. 

In the bleak drear fog of this autumn day 
I watched while his spirit passed, 

This bronze crowned son of the Southland 
Unconquered to the last. 

He asked that I would not "write Mother" 
And tell her that he was here, 

For a few days, until he was better. 
To spare her a useless fear. 

And now he has slipped past the border 
Of this realm of bitter pain,- 

In my heart is a deep sad thankfulness 
That he need not suffer again. 

I count him one of my heroes so brave, 
Dear Lord, how young he seems; 

I know that after full many a day 

1 shall see this boy in my dreams. 

But those w ho will carry their burden of 
grief 

Through all of the coming years, 
Are awaiting the message that I must send 

Confirming their hearts" worst fears. 



61 



Brizeaux-Forestiere, 
October 4th, 1918. 

The courage of a nineteen year old lad, shot through the 
lung, was the wonder and admiration of us all. 



AN ECHO OF THE ARGONNE 

How well I remember, dear lad, 
the night I came to you out of the 
agonies of that unspeakable hell, 
in which you had been changed from 
the gay boy you must have been, to 
the wonder-man for whom I came to 
care so tenderly. You said you had 
no mother, and I, — I have no son! 

The incessant thunder of the 
dread barrage shook the very tentpole 
where you lay all white and breath- 
less of your ghastly wounds. 

You thought I was an angel on 
that night, and your transfigured 
smile gave my heart pause, as I 
sought your fluttering pulse, and 
bent to catch the whispered word 
which seemed so near your last. 



62 



October 4th. 



1 never hoped to see you more. 
On that dread night of terrors I 
thought you would have passed on 
to your well earned rest. Yet in the 
morning when I made my rounds 
you were still there. 

Each weary day that dragged 
its tedious course, I held you steady 
while the tortures that meant life 
to you, tore my very soul to shreds. 

Your head pressed tight against 
me and your two hands gripped in 
mine we fought it out together, you 
and I. You never flinched, just drew 
your breath in those great agonizing 
gasps, while the cold sweat drenched 
my shoulder. 

You were so young, so brave, 
I could not let you die. 



63 



Brizeaux-Forestiere, 
October 4th, 1918. 



Then suddenly they sent you to 
some other place. It was a bleak 
drear day. There seemed so little I 
could do to rob that fearful journey 
of its agonies! 

And yet you smiled up at me 
from the stretcher there, that strange 
sweet smile that seemed scarce 
of this earth a part. 

You said you did not suffer. 
And 1 shuddered when I thought the 
drug that held your pain in leash 
might loose its hold before you came 
to that far haven that I could not 
even know. 
****** 
Dear boy, you might have been 
my son. And I have never known if 
you survived that journey, or whether 
you lie buried there in that sad 
France, which I should love more 
tenderly, if you were sleeping 
there. 



Brizeaux-Forestiere, 
October 5th, 1918. 

No nurse is available to tai<e 24 hour duty with Lieut. Colsh. 
They say the groans and ether of the ward will kill him. 



THE LIFE OF A SURGEON 

Marie Hancox of Issoudun, 

My very first buddy dear, 
After all the times I have asked for her 

At the crucial moment is here. 

Tonight she has come to Eleven, 
With "searcher" Turnbul sent, 

When the Colonel had asked me to "special 
One of our staff in a tent. 

There are diets and letters and dressings 

That daily are to do. 
For more than eight hundred patients, — 

We are thankful they have sent two. 

Browny and I are working already 

Up to twenty two hours in a day; 

We didn't see how she could possibly 
Add my wards to hers this way. 

But we cant spare one of our surgeons. 
And at this rate he would not survive. 

If I only can carry him over, 
Until those nurses arrive! 



65 



Brizeaux-Forestiere, 
October 6th, 1918. 



MIDNIGHT 

It is midnight, my patient is 
sleeping. The fire in the little stove 
must be kept burning. / dare not 
sleep, though it is twenty two hours 
since last time. 

I always thought being shot at 
sunrise for sleeping on guard, was a 
particularly unkind sentence. 

I shall recount an experience of 
today in my journal. Perhaps writing 
will keep me awake. 



66 



Brizeaux-Forestiere, 
October 6th and 7th, 1918. 



IN A TENT 

The wind is howling and jerking 

"Til the chains are near to breaking 

With the wobbly stove-pipe swaying, 

As each rain-mad claw comes raking 
Down the tent. 

The fevered brow is cooling now 

And I meditate in wonder 
That man has the power to weather 

Such a storm as beats in thunder 
On the tent. 

One chain already has broken! 

The slack released now lashes, — 
Oh, see! Another has parted! 

The whole side fairly dashes 
From the tent. 



67 



Brizeaux-Forestiere, 
October 7th, 1918. 



I spring to catch the back-lash 

With my arms reached high to hold 

From off the patient lying there 

The rain-soaked cloth, and death-cold 
Of the tent. 

Then down comes the icy deluge 

Through the canvas, and it's sending 

Little trickling rivers oer me, 
Snakily as it's descending 
Through the tent. 

The tent crew now is finished 

With rattling ladder and chain 

While the patient lay and watched them 
And all the time fell the rain 
Upon the tent. 

But night had come with darkness 
All the silent camp enfolding. 

Ere I dared relax my vigil 

And to cease from stiffly holding 
Up the tent. 



68 



Beaulieu and Triacourt, (from a letter home. ) 
October 20th, 1918. 

Lieut. Rosch is going with me on search for the 
precious, elusive eggs. I pray for success! 



LE CHEVAL BLESSE ET DES OEUFS 




Our little fat "cheval blesse" 

From the Remount Camp we take, 

Hitched to the queer high two-wheeled cart 
With mounting step and squacky brake. 

The flood-gates have been opened wide 
And the torrents now descend. 

But we cannot stop to build an ark, — 
Our egg supply is at an end. 



69 



Beaulieu, and Triacourt, 
October 20th, 1918. 



No hen can go un-challenged 
On the countryside so wet ; 

It isn't a matter of what we want, 
It's what we have to get. 

So on past the Camp of Raton, 

And up the Beaulieu hill. 
I never saw the rain come down 

In such a mighty spill. 

It makes a curtain around us 

And our equipage today 
Cutting us off and soaking us through 

In a smother of "Corot grey. " 

Poor little horse, what a hill it is! 

Cheer up, see who's ahead! 
Remember the day you were wounded, 

And your running mate lay dead? 

There's a mule team climbing before you 
With a great enormous gun ; 

The barrage last night was louder 
And they're fixing for the Hun. 

Fruitless search through the village 
From the mairie up and down,- 

A keg of honey and a can of milk. 
But not an egg in town. 



70 



October 20th. 



So down to Triacourt we go 

To Madame Robinet 
But, alas, until December 

No more eggs from Savenay! 

Then over to Maire Joyieux 

For the permit to "import" 

And releases for the woman 

From a "Summons to the Court." 

Before the Major's open fire 

A kindly conference, 
Turned us the yield of his pet coop, 

And the coveted documents. 

Armed with these and a "God speed" 
We returned to Madam's place. 

And explained how she was safe now, 
By the gold seal of His Grace. 

Whereupon a hidden basket 

Of eight dozen eggs came out, 

Which under the "Legal process," 
She dared not tell about. 

With the four from the mayor's pet hens 
"One hundred woofs" we go, 

Soaking w^et through the dark night 
But warm with triumph's glow. 



En Route to Exermont, 
October 30th, 1918. 




Brizeaux-Forestiere, Meuse-Argonne, 
October 30th, 1918. 

I appreciate Col. Duval's permission to go into No-Man's-Land 
for eggs, when it is forbidden to any woman. 



NO-MAN'S-LAND 

Major Bailey advised me this morning 
About number 13 at some length: 

There's a possible chance with three eggs a day, 
To eke out his fast ebbing strength. 

Our supply won't last half through the week 
With the others who need them beside, 

But 13 declares eggs will come to his buddies 
"And certainly they will divide, 

Provided, of course, that my outfit 
Isn't blown into bits before then; 

Or hasn't been ordered to move on; 

And you get to the dug-outs we're in. 

I know that the eggs will be coming. 
Because I'm mess sergeant, you see; 

And the others can have them, can't they, 
If they get here too late for me? " 



73 



No Man's Land, 
October 30th, 191 




74 



No Man's Land, 
October 30th, 1918. 



The needle that stuck in the haymow 

A cinch beside this would be. 
Yet I gave my word to Colonel Duval 

That those eggs would come home with 
me. 

He would not have given the order to go 

If I hadn't done it that way; 
I could not stop to consider if I'd 

Keep my word today, 

There was just one chance for the precious 
eggs, 
And that was in No-Man's-Land. 
So my wonderful pal, Margaret Brown, and I 
On this wild goose chase went hand in 
hand. 

The road was infernally cut up, and the 
"Town" just a wreckage of shell. 

So you only could find out by asking 

Where it was in these borders of Hell. 

Trench Mortar Company number 2, 

Bless their hearts, they divided their 
store ! 

Enough for the Sergeant and lots of others 
Who need them as much or more. 



75 



Brizeaux-Forestiere, 
October 30th, 1918. 



But the memory long will be with me 

Of that awful ride back without light 

When we sat on the seat with the driver 
And tried to see into the night. 

On our left moved troops for replacement 
With camouflaged big guns, 

And smoking rolling kitchens, 
Caissons, and camions. 

While we were only a tiny speck in the 
Midst of the long, long train, 

That was coming out for a breathing spell 
To rest, and go in again. 

My hat is off to the Ambulance Corps, 
I never knew what it meant 

To carry those shattered comrades 

In the pitch black way they went! 

"My God, driver, not so fast!" 

"Have a heart, my arm is gonef 

"I'll say these jolts will kill me!" 

Through barrage-lit nights, 'til dawn. 



76 



Brizeaux-Forestiere, 
November 10th, 1918. 



IN THE NIGHT 

After the weary hours of toil I laid me down to 
rest, in a damp and freezing shelter where I slept 
for a few brief scattered moments of each night. 

The lashof the frozen raindrops as they struck 
against the roof sent a sickening shudder of utter 
cold shivering up my spine. 

I thought of the boys in the trenches enduring 
that bitter chill and the wounded lying waiting 
while their life-blood ebbed away. 




Duck-board walks and splintered trees of 
Argonne trenches at Four de Paris. 



77 



Brizeaux-Forestiere, 
November 10th, 1918. 



And all the time incessantly 
the tread of marching men passing 
by on the shell- wracked road beat 
on my heart and brain. 

"Though the sinister boom of 
deadly barrage pulsed through the 
aching air, I slept the sleep of 
oblivion in heaven's mercy gi\'en. 

At three o'clock in the morning, 
ebb-tide of human life, the piercing 
teeth of the biting cold roused me 
out of sleep, and shook me into con- 
sciousness in the grip of a cramping 
chill. 

My boots already were frozen 
fast to the inundated floor and I 
could not see my buddy's bunk for 
the white frost in the air. 

I rose in the throbbing darkness 
and my heart turned faint within, as I 
heard the rumbling ambulances bring- 
ing their burden of pain. 

Perhaps they had lain for hours 
under fire, since the '"shell marked 
for them" had come. 



78 



We must hasten to make them room. 
Not a bed was vacant now. And we knew 
the surgeons were operating with super- 
human speed. 

Some of the boys we had watched 
since the day when they "got theirs'" 
would have to be moving on now to 
make room for a newer need. 

In the slimy, slippery darkness we 
went from tent to tent, and our hearts 
were near to breaking as we sought 
the tags that said which of our brave 
young heroes were to pass beyond our ken. 

They smiled when they saw us come 
to speed them on their way with steaming 
cups of cocoa and the few things we 
could give to make the dreaded 
journey seem less long. 

To tuck a blanket closer on the 
stretchers where they lay; and make sure 
the treasured comfort-bags were safe. 

It w^as the last chance we would 
have to ease a twisted shoulder or to 
put a splint more straight, with a smile 
of reassurance as they carried them away. 

Another dav alreadv was beginning. 



79 



Brizeau-Forestiere, Argonne-Meuse, 
November 11th, 1918. 



FURNACES OF WAR 

I have seen the souls of real men burned bare 

In the white-hot kilns of war, 
Stand forth revealed in the pitiless glare 

Where pretense was no more ; 
When all for which they had learned to care 

In cycles that came before, 
Was cracked as a useless mold, out there, 

And cast on the testing floor. 

And when the glaze that could not withstand 

The fire and the acid test 
Has been burned to dust in No-Man's-Land, 

Behold a power unguessed I 
For this heart of flint needs no command 

Urging to his best ; 
He is as he came from the Maker's hand. 

The elemental blest. 



80 



ECHOES OF FRANCE 

Part Four 

THE AFTER^CLAP 

November Uth, 1918, 

to 

March 10th, 1919. 



After the last fierce crash has struck. 
And the force of the storm is spent; 
Often there comes an afterclap when 
"The veil of the temple is rent". 



Verdun, Meuse-Argonne, 
November 23rd, 1918. 




Capt. Homer Youngs 
Today I gathered a spray of roses from a 
broken wall of the most heroic ruin in this 
heroic land. I am taking it to Captain Youngs. 
The California home of which he dreams must 
be full of roses now. 

82 



Brizeau-Forestiere, 
November 24th, 1918. 



THE LAST ROSE OF VERDUN 

(a sonnet) 

In memory of Captain Homer Youngs. 

Oh, white rose blooming on the broken wall 

In that brave city through whose guarding gate 

The charging hordes with bitter hymn of hate 

Have never passed ; whose ramparts did not fall, 

Though broken, spent; because that clarion call 

"They shall not pass," rang as the voice of Fate: 

Sweet flower that dying sheds a fragrance late, 

A symbol seems of its fair spirit mate. 

And so the simple white rose cross I weave 

And lay it gently in the hand of him 

Whose Soul fought bravely 'gainst the need to 

leave 
That broken wall, where it had clung through dim 
Vast reaches of such pain, we must not grieve 
Because, at last, it passes Heaven's rim. 




Is ne passeront pas!" 

83 



Four de Paris, 
November 30th, 1918. 



PITIFUL HOPE OF THE FUTURE 

From over the distant ocean 

The conquering legion came 

To drive the invading army forth 
In Freedoms holy name. 

And it was not long ere the kiddies 
Sensed that a friend was near. 

Those comradeships in shell-wracked 
France 
Are ties to hold most dear. 

To think the price we have paid in pain 
For this tortured and desolate land! 

If we only could lend in their desperate 
need 
A strong and a saving hand. 

For what will avail all the sacrifice 
And the anguish it has cost, 

If we let it go with a fight well won 
And the little children are lost? 



84 




Comrades in France. 



85 



EXERMONT, MeUSE-ArGONNE, 

December 1st, 1918. 




86 



EXERMONT, MeUSE-ArGONNE, 

December 1st, 1918. 

I have had a haunting longing to return to 
Excrmont. Today I am going. 



THE HEART OF THE ARGONNE 

The sun on this drear winter day went 

slipping gently down 
Behind the utter wreckage of a little 

Argonne town, 
Gilding those shattered fragments with 

such a radiant glow 
As sometimes casts a glamour on objects 

here below. 

As I crossed la place where once had 

stood the holy font 
Of this quaint and peaceful village, known 

as Exermont, 
My footsteps sounded harshly on the 

cluttered thorofare, 
Crunching crumbling heaps of rubbish 

scattered everywhere. 

Turning down a simple side street toward 

la mairie 
I came upon a vision that clutched at the 

heart of me; 
A vision that smothered my eyes in bitter 

burning tears, 
Adding another heart-ache to the sheaf of 

the coming years. 



87 



EXERMONT, MeUSE-ArGONNE, 

December 1st, 1918. 



There leaning on his rifle, stood a boy 

who had been young 
Four ghastly mortal years agone, when he 

had been among 
The gallant gay "blue devils," who grasped 

their gleaming swords. 
For loved ones and "la Patrie" to turn 

the German hordes. 

Through dragging months in prison camps, 

toiling he has waited. 
Keeping the happy vision though bound by 

those he hated; 
Longing for this humble cottage with its 

climbing white rose vine, 
Whose branches still are clinging to yon 

wall, wrecked by a mine. 

So he stands here in his uniform with 

ragged coat of blue; 
A swathing strip of cloth replacing one 

spent and missing shoe, 
Dropped somewhere in the weary, weary 

miles that he has come, 
Since the dank coal mines disgorged him 

almost starved and wholly dumb. 



EXERMONT, MeUSE-ArGONNE, 

December 1st, 1918. 



Gone are the wife and babe, in that 

hideous, hellish time 
That seared the heart of nature with a 

holocaust of crime; 
And as he pours his aching soul through 

yearning, searching eyes. 
He sees what the war has done to him, 

and his hope flames up and dies. 

The hunger of that haunted gaze, that 

sees me not dt all, 
As he looks on that ruined home, now 

but a shattered wall, 
And the lurid wild imaginings of things 

that are but guessed ; 
Make those that are only dead stand 

forth as the happy blest. 

Slowly groping he reaches for that last 

white withered rose, 
The sole remaining keepsake of an epoch 

that must close. 
And so he takes unseeingly the hand that 

offers him 
The friendship of another land so far 

remote and dim. 



89 



Evacuation Hospital #11, 
November 20th, 1918. 



PUDDINGS 'N' EVERY THING 

Today we made puddings for all of our pets, 
As the press of the work is abating. 
And those who remain are not rushed 

away; 
We can pamper them more while they're 

waiting. 

Tapioca and fruit and the juices of lemons, 
Custards and egg-nogs and good soups 

galore, 
With apples for those who have always 

adored them. 
Fresh grapes or an orange, and many 

things more. 

When at last the white "'ribbons"" are tied 

on their cots. 
Bring pajamas, and sox (oftentimes a half 

pair) 
With sweaters for all w ho can possibly wear 

them 
On that ambulance ride in the cold winter 

air. 



Station Platform, Bar le Due, 
3 A. M., December 8th, 1918. 

The train to Paris was due at 11:10 last 
night, it is 3 o'clock in the morning, I'm 
shivering with the cold and weariness of 
waiting. 



90 



Paris, 

December 24th, 1918. 

i am so happy because Major Boyer has given 
me the canteen at the station 1 love so well! 



QUA I D'ORSAY 

They tell me that the war is over 

So this winter I shall be 
Here in Paris where there's water, 

Light and heat and things to see. 

My new canteen is nearly ready, 

Requisitions are all made; 
Our personnel assigned to duty; 

With good French cooks well paid, 

Laura Wurtz is just a wonder 

Engineering everything; 
The magic touch of Chariot Gaylord 

Walls and screens transfiguring. 

Our jolly group of willing workers 

With enthusiasm high, 
Will make this spot a cheerful respite 

For "homing troops" that hasten by, 



American Hospital, Neuilly, 
December 26th, 1918. 

THE AFTERCLAP 

My journey from the Argonne with prisoners 

of war 
Whose li\es may yet be forfeit ere they reach 

the Blighty shore, 
Has dealt me such a knockout blow as 

nothing had before. 



91 



Cap d'Antibes, Alpes-Maritime, 
February 9th, 1919. 

These observations were of a shock case in 
whom the lyterian Riviera wrought miracles. 



LYTERIAN RIVIERA 

'Twas in the lovely south of France, 

The sunny Riviera, 
Where we wandered in the winter 

When the ghaStly war was over. 

Monte Carlo, Nice, and Mentone, 
On the peacock Southern Ocean, 

Fair Dream Cities carved in ivory 
With their roofs of pinkest coral. 

Oh, the gorgeous peace and plenty. 
And the sunshine and the soft air, 

Bringing calm sweet restoration 

And the long forgotten laughter. 

All the torn and mangled nerve-life 
Lulled and eased back into being 

By the magic winter spring-time 

And the breezes gentle breathing. 

As a strong tree wrenched and twisted 
Straightens when the storm is spent. 

So your scarred and tortured spirit 
Once again lifts high its head. 



92 



All the hideous, hellish torments 

That your quivering soul has known 

Smoothed and conjured to mere memories 
Can not claim you for their own. 

Haunted eyes that flinched and shuddered 

All serene and sure again, 
Gaze with straight and steady purpose 

Out across the glistening Sea. 

For the gentle waves are plashing 

In their never-ending beat 
Stirring Westward, Homeward yearnings 

With a healing that breathes peace. 




The Beach at Nice 



93 



ECHOES OF FRANCE 
Part Five 

THE RAINBOW 

March 10th, 1919, 

to 

July 7th, 1919. 



The arch of promise reaches, 
Spanning the dome of blue, 

In colorful foretellings of 
Dreams that will come true. 



France, 
Spring, 1919. 



L'ARC EN CIEL 
DES FLEURES DE LA FRANCE 

Wisteria clings to yon trellised wall 

In mists of a fading grief, 
For the heaviest mourning will lighten 

When Time brings its sure relief. 

Indigo deep in the foxglove cup 

Was distilled with essence of dew 

From hearts" blood of truant lovers 
Whom the arrows of Eros slew. 

Le bluet sprinkles the fields of gold 

With myriad service stars, 
For the lads who came from across the Sea 

To the rendevous of Mars. 

Green is the laurel and green is the palm 
That token the task well done, 

And green is the ivy that covers the mounds 
Where the Argonne fight was won. 



96 



Yellow, glistening yellow so bright, 

A smart little buttercup 
Catches and holds the sun to shine 

When the clouds come rolling up. 

Oranges peep from the verdure deep 
Of the ever blossoming tree 

That glows on the Riviera 

By the shores of the Summer Sea. 

Poppies are yielding their nodding tops 
To the heartening breezes that blow 

And pulses are speeding with quickening 
beat 
Where the bounding life streams flow. 



The subtile charm of those fiowers 
Gently enspiriting life, 

Drifted us into delight filled hours 
Beyond the echoes of strife. 



97 



Hospital vSection, Fine Arts Department, 

Army Educational Corps, 
Savenay, Loire-Inferieure, 
March 20th, 1919. 

Capt. Aymar Embury II, U. S. Engineers, has borrowed me 
to teach Architecture for A. E. F. University Extension. 



A. E. C. AT SAVENAY 

Colonel Cooper made us welcome 
When we first arrived in town; 

Major Fredrickson, the Adjutant, 
And the others right on down. 

The wise un-tiring kindly help 

Of Major Larigo, 
Has smoothed our path in lots more 
ways 

Than he will ever know. 

Sergeant Sharp has high efficiency 

In doing everything, 
From deckle-edging booklet leaves 

To tying up a string. 

Our orderlies are fine lads, too. 
Who work right cheerfully 

For dainty little Corin Craine, 
For Lucia D., and me. 

The carpenters make everything 
To which our hearts aspire 

Easels, screens, tall stools, and tables, 
Or drawing boards, as we desire. 

For supplies we "requisition" 

When there's anything we need; 

So altogether we will say 

"This studio has some speed!" 



98 



Savenay, 
April 15th, 1919. 




SAM BROWNES 
The Army has taken us over, oh joy! 

After borrowing us for a spell; 
We are telling the world that a Sam Browne 
belt, 
Now is our "regulation" as well. 



Savenay, Loire-Inferieure, 
June 3rcl, 1919. 



THE WAKE 

When the word from G. H. Q. came 
That A. E. C. must close, 

A wail of lamentation 
In the studio arose. 

Henkle with a future, 

His pictures row on row, 

Looked his consternation 

In a gloom of honest woe. 

Sentoro painting portraits 

On a scrap of shelter-tent, 

Refused to grasp entirely 

What the omen message meant. 

Earnest from the Mountains, 

"Jest a restin' 'til yu come;" 

Jeffries of the pen-craft, 

And poultry Sergeant Crum. 



100 



Savenay, 
June 3rd, 1919. 



Lloyd Gates our husky bugler 

Painting fairer than he guessed; 

Reynolds splashing colors rash, 
Better than the best. 

Battershell with day-dreams 
Of a bungalow to build; 

Sergeant House with whims and 
fancies, 
His sketchbook brimming filled. 

"Peter Pan" McDougle 

Galloping from craft to craft, — 
To the soulfullest remonstrances 

Peter only laughed. 

McBride's become an expert 

In cutting stencils out; 
But Weston went on convoy; 

And young Catzy roves about. 



101 



Savenay, 
June 3rd, 1919. 



Jahn Jr.'s "ram's horn capitals" 

Are drawn on curves most rare; 

And Kaiser, a fine architect, 
Is assigned to St. Nazaire. 

I never saw a better worker 
Than Vernon E. Duchesne, 

I hope I'll chance to see him 
In the U. S. A. again. 

Hassinger and Jenson 

Doing work that is a joy; 

And Strandimo the faithful, 
An earnest minded boy. 

The Sergeant shows a vision 

To his pictured "Marseillaise" 

'Til she fairly holds you spellbound 
With the raptness of her gaze. 



102 



Savenay, 
June 3rd, 1919. 



Jacobeli has the color gift 

From sunny Italy, 
With all his naive innocence 

And simple modesty. 

Temperamental Alteriso, 

"When I get you, I will leave you!" 
Sergeant Harper, camouflager, 

Got his Beaune assignment through. 

We have a young Marine, too. 

Who says with eyes that dance, 

"These days here in the studio 

Were my happiest in France!" 

Sergeant Schonover's a wonder 

With pastel of rare effect! 
And the Captain an anatomist 

Whose figures are correct. 



103 



Savenay, June 3rd, 1919. 




104 



Savenay, 
June 3rd, 1919. 



Major Baehr painting frog-ponds 
And precious pearls in grey, 

Declares it was a god-send, 
So to pass the time away. 

Colonel Napier was most friendly 

From his desk beyond the screen 

And Lieutenant Huber smiled away 
A cloud that might have been. 

It is lucky every body 

Has cheered us now and then 
Because our classes numbered 

Mighty near a hundred men. 

Officers and non-coms, 

Nurses and the buck, 
Think our untimely taking-off 

A beastly stroke of luck. 



105 



Savenay, 
June 4th, 1919. 



INSPECTION 

The studio is lovely with the 
salvaged ecru linen stretched from 
window-top to floor in every wall 
space 'round the huge rooms. 

Nothing else could set off 
better oil, pastel or crayon studies, 
and portraits by the budding artists 
under Leffingwell's direction; 
or the plans and elevations, letter 
plates and clever renderings of 
my own ambitious boys. 

We are ready for inspection 
and are more than glad it's good, 
as our cheerful young Lieutenant 
makes an all-night trip from Paris 
just to give us "the once over." 



106 



From Beaune, Cote-d'or, 
June 11th, 1919. 



20 DAYS" LEAVE 

There is so much of beauty in 
France in this time "aprez la guerre' 
that I am impelled to set down a few 
impressions as they come to me. 

All these lovely incomparable 
charms give me the feeling of having 
witnessed the final act of a sweetly 
mitigated tragedy. 

Or as though a light has broken 
through the war clouds of November, 
and has touched with a ray of hope 
the veil of falling tears that refracts 
it to prismatic glory. 

Through this we look on a World 
transfigured, and Nature takes on new 
meaning. 



107 



Savenay, Loire-Inferieure, 
June 12th, 1919. 



FOXGLOVE'S MIRROR 

Oh, of all the lovely seasons 

The dear Lord has given us 

The fairest sweetest treasure was 
That Spring in far off France 
Happy-sad. 

Often when the gorgeous sunset 
Turns the heavens into flame. 

My truant fancy wanders to 
A gentle magic May-time 
That is spent. 

On the hillside by the clear pool 

Where the cool brown shadows dwelt 

We would linger through the gloaming 
And watch the slipping twilight 
Softly come. 



108 



Savenay, 
June 12th, 1919. 



While the foxglove bent above us 
On its tall and slender stems 

With a gleaming iridescence 

In its wondrous heart of fiame, 
Purple-red. 

For that magic color wakens 

As the slanting sun rays fall 

Piercing through with living light 
The hidden glory in their 
Glowing grail. 

A sweet intoxication breathes 

From flaming flowers of France 

When the clear pool mirrors Heaven, 
And brings it down to mortals 
Here below. 



109 



Everywhere in France, 
Spring 1919. 



APOLOGIA FOR THE BLIMPS 

Once on a time in a far off land, the captive 
balloons were tethered. Thousands and thousands 
of them were pulling and tugging at the restraining 
G. O. wires. But they couldn't get away, poor 
things. 

Each had to stay put, until an ordre de mis- 
sion peremptorily changed the position, and dug 
him in, or made him fast to some other post. 

This was the more tragic because all these 
captives had been accustomed to the freedom of air, 
earth, sea and speech, during all their breezy, 
flighty, unrestricted young lives. The jerking and 
pulling that those wires suffered only made them 
firmer, however. 

Sometimes whole new sections were added, for 
fear someone would get loose and float about at 
will. It was easy to see that every wire was 
charged with deadly portent, and insulated with 
hundreds of metres of red tape, — impermeable 
and harsh. 

Any attempt to break away hurt, and success 
was almost surely fatal. 



Everywhere in France, 
Spring 1919. 



So it had been for months and months, when 
one day in Spring of 1919, G. O. #371 came clip- 
ping and snipping the tethers. 

You could hear the crispy sound of elation 
as each was released. Did you know that delici- 
ous sense of in finite buoyancy? You did if you 
were one. 

Away they went, in every direction, bound- 
ing into the ether reaches where larks held forth in 
the morning and poured out their homing call at 
twilight; and nightingales transformed moonlit 
hours into a delicious dream compelling delight. 

Then a little breeze would toss them to dizzy 
heights from which they could view the oriental 
carpet of fiower emblazoned fields. J ean Plantagenet, 
of the sun's own gold, coquelicot, marguerite, bluet, 
interspersed with wine red treffie and glorified by 
la digital and a myriad others. 



Ill 



Everywhere in France, 
Spring 1919. 



Then the towers of an irresistible chateau 
would drift into view, and down they would come 
with a merry bump. 

There was never such a joyous sense of freedom 
in all their lives before, because they had never 
before been all wound around with woolen yarn 
and red tape, for such endless ages. 

In the Valley of la Loire, 
June 14th, 1919. 

BLIMPS 

The captive balloons cut loose one day 

In the land of France and the month of May; 

They've been tethered tight for an age, I'll say, 
Oh Boy, oh joy, when they get away! 

Oo la la, and away they go 

With a slip and a skip 

Yo ho, yea Bo! 



112 



In the Valley of la Loire, 
June 14th, 1919. 



When you think the life those balloons have led 
Made fast to their posts with tapes of red, 

You won't advise them to keep their head. 
But leave them free as a lark instead. 

Oo la la, and away they go 

With a slip and a skip, 

Yo ho, yea Bo! 

Each dizzy young breeze that bats the air 

Sends the fleet of balloons for a spin up there; 

Furlough or leave, they have earned it for fair. 

And they're headed for home, so why should 
you care? 

Oo la la, and away they go 

With a slip and a skip 

Yo ho, yea Bo! 

Acknowledgment is hereby given Col. C. for the 
metaphor, "a captive balloon with the rope cut".) 



113 



Blois, 

June 14th, 1919. 



ODE TO LA LOIRE 

In June a morning ail too fair unfurled 

O'er that dear France of our sweet yesterday. 
Oh, 'twas the pinnacle of this new world; 

And our two hearts stood breathless in the sway 
Of breezes sounding the Souls' reveille. 

Beyond our own volition to go forth 
Together thus, or to remain apart; 

The joy of life soared for us happily 
Above all thought; a more compelling force 

Than ever moved our un-united heart. 

And when we had fared forth in that sublime 

Sweet morning, born as on celestial wings, 
We reached a gentle river's brink, where Time 

Rests silent, while the water softly sings 
And murmurs memories of dear dead Loves 

Of old who wandered in the Bishop's Garden 
Holding fast their fleeting moments even as 

We now linger in those fragrant groves 
Hearing the chiming bells of far Ardenne 

'Mid that glamour an ancient romance has. 



114 



Blois, 

June 14th, 1919. 




In all the world beside there is no river 

That holds such magic hidden in its 
Placid depths. See la Loire glide hither, 

Sweet, incomparable, as o'er it flits 
The pensive shadow of the passing hours; 

Its mission high on this tempestuous earth 
Is to reflect the moon on happy nights 

Like this of ours, when slumbrous nodding 
flowers 
Exhale nocturnal fragrances whose worth 

Can only reckoned be in measures of delight. 



115 



Blois, 

June 14th, 1919, 



LA LOIRE 

E'en now sometimes in long dim watches lone 

I waken with soft murmurs of la Loire 
Calling; my arms outstretched to where once shone 

In ether vast and pure, my lorn love star, 
While ripples caught the moonbeams from the blue 

And tossed them through the casement 
windows wide, 
Like precious jewels for a crown, meseems. 

So I breathe my soul on the wings, to you, 
Of a sigh across Time and Space and Tide; 

And sink again to sweetly haunting dreams. 

For already our Land of Hearts" Desire 
Is the Long-Ago and the Far-Away. 



116 



Savenay, 
June 20th, 1919. 



THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 
( a sonnet) 

In Bretagne in the lovely month of May 
The shadows grew in slim straight lines 

along 
The grass; homing birds poured forth their 

song; 
And the evening call of a sky lark sped 

departing day 
Beyond the misty hills of Savenay. 

Our hearts were all attuned to catch the 

strong 
Clear notes in ether reaches where belong 
Those fancies which Life often drives away. 
We stood upon the apex of the World, 
Where three majestic pine trees pointed 

high 
Toward Heaven, while a tiny spiral whirled, 
Descending from the now fast dimming sky,- 
That moment our two Souls in one were 

furled 
In that long kiss whose memory can not die. 



117 



QUIMPER, 

June 28th, 1919. 



PEACE 

Through quaint Quimper the river flows, 
And the tall church spires look down 

On women and men of the Province clad 
In velvet jacketed suit or gown. 

Peace was signed at Versailles today, 

So the people donned their best, then 

With stiff starched feminine coifs and ruffs 
And wide flat hats for the men. 

From far Guerande and Finisterre, 

Kerhuon and Plougastel, 
Le Croisic, Karnac, and la Boule, 

They have gathered for the festival. 

In the public square soft music sighs 
As the quiet populace moves about ; 

While illuminations of red and green 

Light up when the torch weaves in and out. 

There is naught of boist'rous hilarity 

In the voice of this release. 
It is just a calm acceptance. 

While the river murmurs "Peace." 



118 



ECHOES OF FRANCE 
Part Six 

AFTERGLOW 

July 7th, 1919, 

to 

October 12th, 1920. 



Evening time 
And the day is done. 
The Storm is past 
And calm is won; 
In the fading light 
Again appear 
Remembered glows 
Of Yesteryear. 



Camp Kerhuon, Brest, 
July 7th, 1919. 



HOMEWARD 

The great ships ride at anchor out in the 
harbor there, while the coaling tugs ply back 
and forth in the course of their busy life. 

They are Army transports, those great huge 
hulks, that once were for pleasure and pomp. 
Their beautiful promenade decks now are throng- 
ed with tier upon tier of bunks. 




Soldiers" Bunks on the "Imperator." 



120 



Boarding the Imperator, Brest, 
July, 7th, 1919. 



And down 'round the curve of 
yonder hill come pouring the khaki- 
clad troops; an endless line it ap- 
pears to be, unwinding from camp to 
pier. 

With radiant smiles and with 
buoyant step, onward and on they 
come. But many who came, we must 
leave behind; and others on litters 
are borne; while once and again 
comes a lad who smiles though he's 
going back maimed for life. 

They're so sure of the welcome 
that 'waits them there when they get 
to the U. S. A.! How I wish I could 
spare them the "wakening pain I 
am bitterly sure will be theirs. 



121 



New York, 
July 15th, 1919. 



BACK IN GOD'S COUNTRY 

And now we are back in God's Country, 

But, Lord! it isn't the same; 
For something has gone and something 
has come 

In playing war's intricate game; 
And values have altered entirely 

So that what was worth while we'd say 
In the care free years of our far off youth 

Has ceased to exist in some strange way 
That is hopelessly hard to explain. 

In fancy still I'm list'ning as the 

Doughboys shout with glee. 
If the "Old Girl in the Harbor" wants 

To get a look at me 
She can take the chance when I come from 
France, 

For it's Never Again! Compree? 



122 



New York Harbor, 
July 13th, 1919. 




'The Old Girl in the Harbor." 

123 



New York, 
July 15th, 1919. 



Oh, the dreams that I've had and the plans 
that I've made 

Of a bungalow up on the hill, — 
With the gold at the end of the rainbow 

These wonderful dreams to fulfill! 
For, buddy, you see I've a corking fine job 

That they said no one else would get; 
And my girl? Oh boy! here's her picture. 

(They sent her the news, but I haven't 
heard yet.) 

There were strikes that stopped the mail-boats 

Coming out to sea. 
So I'm keener yet to give "the Old Girl" 

That last look at me. 
She can take the chance when I come from France, 

For it's Never Again! Compree? 



124 



New York, 
July 15th. 1919. 



(Of course I'll be no good for dancing now 

Which makes my thoughts run rather sober 
Because of a "masher" that landed by me 

On the banks of the Meuse last October.) 
I'll say I had some little pardner 

As we swung through the tango together. 
And she said she'd stand by me, no matter 

If sunny or stormy the weather. 

So I'm sure I'll get a letter 

As cheerful as can be, 
When the "Old Girl in the Harbor" gets 

That last look at me. 
She can take the chance when I come from France 

For it's Never Again! Compree? 



125 



Minneapolis, Minnesota, 
October 15th, 1919. 



VANISHING GOLD AT THE RAINBOW'S END 

My job has been taken by someone 

Who felt that the "war was all wrong." 

And the Girl, — well, how can you blame her? 
If you loved to dance, would you want 
to belong 

To a man who'd left one leg in France? 



There's a land where a "blesse" 's no 
discard. 
On the other side of the Sea! 
So "the old Girl in the Harbor" gets 

One more look at me. 
She can take the chance when I go to 
France, 
For it's Back Again! Compree? 



126 



robbinisdale, minnesota 
November 11th, 1919. 



MEMORIES OF MARTIAL MUSIC 



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I. CHOPIN FUNERAL MARCH 

How well I remember that little plot 

On the other side of the sea, 
Where are sleeping the valiant bird-men 

In a place so dear to me! 
Never so long as life remains 

Will I hear the Chopin hymn, 
But the memory of that hillside 

Will turn my vision dim. 
The hum of the Nieuports overhead 

And the care-free song of a bird, 
Mingle and blend with the solemn march 

'Til the final strain is heard. 
There is sounding through my memory 

A call so low and sweet 
That life takes pause for a moment 

As the long slow notes repeat 



127 



robbinsdale, minnesota 
November, 11, 1919 



Then a report through the still air, 
The volley in last salute rings; — 

And ever and ever I hear the whirr-rr 
Of the soaring eagle's wings. 




The Last Salute, Issoudun, May 31st, 1918 



128 



University Armory, Minneapolis, 
February 22nd, 1920. 

Presentation of certificates from the French Government, to the 
nearest of kin of the boys who lost their lives in the World War. 






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II TAPS 

Today as taps were sounding 

Their call to the last long sleep 

The slow notes held my heart poised 
In memories sad and sweet. 

'Til the bare brick walls of the armory 
With flags at half-mast hung, 

And the faces dim of the nearest of kin 
Where exalted grief still clung 

Vanish into a vision fading. 

O'er the far away fields of Yesterday, 
Gleaming white in a hallowed light, 

'Rise the crosses of Savenay. 

American women in uniform, 

With little French children hand in hand. 
Come bringing the fair sweet flowers so rare 

For our soldiers' graves in that distant 
land. 

And the solemn word of the Savenaise 
Rings through the waiting air, — 

"Guarding your heroes' resting place 
Shall be our prideful care." 



129 



Fort Snelling, Minnesota, 
Winter, 1920. 



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III. RETREAT 

On the banks of the Minnesota 

As the sun slipped down the west 

A bugle call that was crisp and clear 
Brought my hurrying steps to rest. 

As I stand attention and listen, 
The trees on the Argonne hills 

In the tender glow of Yesteryear 

Touch my heart with remembered thrills; 

For the sky will not quiver and throb tonight 

In gory flashes of red; — 
At eleven this morn the armistice struck 

As the final shot was sped. 

The last clear notes of the evening call 

Die away across the snow, 
And a homesick heart-ache reminds me 

That was all in the long ago. 



130 



Teaching at Fort Snelling, 
Spring, 1920. 




IV REVEILLE 

Oh, Lm back in the army in civies, 

And we have the same reveille call. 

Only now I just listen enraptured 

While the silver-toned bugle notes fall. 

Then I turn on my pillow serenely 

And drift back across the wide seas 

In a roseate glow at the knowledge 

I don't have to get up 'til I please! 

Then all the thrill of "uniform" days 

My dreams usher back on the scene. 

I am standing in line with my mess-kit 
In quest of BB or a bean. 

And, buddy, I'm telling you something, 
The part of the day that is real, 

Is the vision conjured each morning 
By the sound of that bugler's spiel. 

I'd give the soft feel of the feathers 
For the rest of my life, so I would, 

To know once again such a moment 

As I knew there in France, if I could. 



131 



Fort Swelling, 
A Year Later. 



ETCHINGS 

And so with Whistler's soul you fain would etch 
Deep cut the shadows of yon burnt out square. 
Soft rain but now has quenched red embers there 
In those charred ruins where last night some wretch 
Allowed the precious bags of mail to burn. 
A weird enchantment seems to call us back, 
Hither each entre-dance our footsteps turn 
To contemplate the warm and new made scars. 

On down the pike the glist'ning streaks show black 
Where rutted pools lie smooth. And myriad stars 
All drowsily open their long-lashed eyes 
Upon the soft gray pillow of the skies; 
While o'er the hills anent of St. Nazaire 
The yellow lighted lanterns wink and bob. 
Across this picture drift the wisps so rare 
Of melting mellow mists. Sweet laden they 
With breath of flowers that dream of yesterday. 



132 



Fort Snelling, 
A Year Later. 



From Foxglove's Mirror cadences now throb 

The which were sung of Aristophanes, 

Who so immortalized this raucous mob, 

Our Occidental ear new keyed will please. 

Such score De Bussy might perchance have writ, 

For he could drug all sense of tone with it. 

Then gently the slim-fingered notes reach out 

And draw us back into the dance again; 

Lights grow dim, haunting memories whisper doubt 

That merges our sweet rapture into pain. 

And still the music murmurs 




*"Til we meet again" 
(Oh, that time's flight might backward turn tonight!) 



133 



En Route, Minneapolis, Minnesota 

TO Washington, D. C, 
April 20th, 1920. 



ECHO AND RE-ECHO 

Every bird-note, drifting shadows. 
Every little breeze that quivers. 
And the sodden marshland meadows 
By the overflowing rivers; 
Start the chords of memory ringing 
Sad sweet echoes backward winging. 

Each pliant willow wand that 'bides 
Above the river brink a-leaning 
And tiny grass points on the hillsides 
O'er the distant landscape greening 
Start the chords of memory ringing 
Sad sweet echoes backward winging. 

Each fleecy cloud that wanders there 
In the far off heavens drifting by, 
All the scintillating star-beams fair 
In the wondrous azure night-time sky 
Start the chords of memory ringing 
Sad sweet echoes backward winging. 



134 



April 20th, 1920. 



All the downpour of the Spring day 
With incessant dreary dripping, 
All the mud upon the highway 
With the endless weary slipping 
Start the chords of memory ringing 
Sad sweet echoes backward winging. 

Every blesse's reticence 

And strange unyouthful gaze 

Telling volumes by his silence 

In the listless passing days 

Starts the chords of memory ringing 

Sad sweet echoes backward winging. 

Every Winter, every Summer, 
Every Spring and every Autumn, 
Will hear the selfsame murmur. 
And through all the years to come 
Keep the chords of memory ringing 
Sad sweet echoes backward winging. 



135 



En Route, Minneapolis, Minnesota 

TO Washington, D. C. 
April 20th, 1920. 



FAGOT WILLOWS 

Fagot willows by the river 

Slipping down through Illinois, 

Conjure memories of a far land,- 

Of the Marne land's vanished joy. 

Gentle Spring must now be veiling 

All those scarred and shattered hills 

Whose images are ever calling 
With sweet, insistent thrills. 

There's a strange keen exaltation 
Comes with service that forgets 

Every selfish thought and motive 
To repay a nation's debts. 

One of war's great compensations 
In the mighty fight they fought 

Was the wond'rous revelation 

Of high purpose that it wrought. 

Yet a haunting vision rises 

From the willow-guarded stream. 
And I wonder if the war is over 

Or if this is just a dream. 



136 



Minneapolis, Minnesota, 
Summer, 1920. 



AFTERMATH 

Struggling now in a queer dazed way 

With the law "To him that hath, — " 
I am meeting them from day to day 

On each old familiar path. 
I recognize ( and thank God I may!) 

Recollections of fires of wrath 
Flame up and out in the constant play 

Of war's crucial aftermath. 

Oh, passers-by, can ye see and hear 

The changes that have been wrought 
In the age-long span of a single year 

While the mighty fight was fought? 
For the youth of them which they held 
most dear, ,. 

At a fearful price was bought, 
And shades of the past are hovering near 

With sombre memories fraught. 



137 



Fort Snelling, Minnesota, 
October 12th, 1920. 




H; ^ :{: H^ H^ 



VI. SUNSET GUN 

'Tis the sunset gun, for the day is done. 
As fluttering folds of the flag descend 
The drill and fatigue and the toil all end. 

The sky is red with that color dread 
Which now in these times of peace we know 
As the radiant calm of the afterglow. 

Its glory tonight is surpassing bright. 
So the bugle marshals the swift hours by 
From Reveille call to the darkening sky. 

Guard mount, retreat, tattoo or meat, 
'Til at last the slow sweet note of taps 
Will call, when darkness the earth enwraps. 



138 



Everywhere in America, 
After-the-war. 



CARRY ON 



The American Women's Overseas League 
Sends a greeting to you today 

*From the S. O. S. and the L. O. C. 
And the terrible Z. O. A. 

By the fight well won, and the bit well done, 
And the Buddies who Went Away, 

We're telling the World we will Carry On, 
In the dear old U. S. A. 



*Service of Supply, 
Line of Communication, 
Zone of Ad\'ance. 



The End of the Beginning 

Amy Robbins Ware 

Robbinsdale, 

Minnesota, 

U. S. A. 



139 



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